I won’t mind the whispers of thousands men from your steep womb, 

if you promise me isolation after our affair. 

I won’t mind the shallow stones you are carrying in your maze water,

if you lash out at this wild sea. 

We have everything but time with us

or perhaps we have that in abundance. 

I don’t know…I have never associated quantities with you. 

Once we are swallowed in our trippy biology of irregularities,

I will tell you about wings.  

Their mechanisms and how they don’t care about sun and obscurities. 

Dreams to sail with wind and my ugly attempts to ejaculate seeds in you, 

both tangentially feasible in our flying geography. 

Come in a boat that never stops for floating ports. 

I will be ready to leap in my illusion.

……………………………………………………………………..

Photograph: Ran Chakrabarti.